My Life Slowly Dying
by blacksouledbutterfly
Summary: The first thought that goes through his head when he opens is eyes is that this hadn't been as simple of a job as he had thought it would be


The first thought that goes through his head when he opens is eyes is that this hadn't been as simple of a job as he had thought it would be. He had approached Ariadne on her own to ask her to work a job with him. He had insisted it would be simple, that the others wouldn't be necessary in it, that he had done his research and the extraction would be the simplest one that they had ever had to do and so there was no need to involve the entire team, that he had simply needed a good architect to get the job done. At first she had balked and insisted that working the job on their own could be dangerous. But he had smiled at her and insisted and she had given in. and now, waking up in a room that smells of mold he realizes that he had been wrong. The mark had known instantly her mind was being invaded and had struck. But instead of knocking them out of the world it had knocked them out cold- as cold as you can get in a dream at least.

They say that pain is in the mind and if that's true his mind was in a world of pain at the moment. He groans as his eyes open, the dank lighting making his eyes stink. His head lolls forward and instantly he feels sick, something sliding around in his head with a sickening sound, like fluid sloshing around inside of it. Bile rises up in his throat and he realizes that he needs to tilt his head back against the wall behind him for it to go away. But there's a throbbing in the back of his skull and he doesn't think he has the strength to do it.

"Finally awake I see."

The woman's voice is slick like a snake's, cold and empty and he doesn't place it at first, can't even think about anything but tilting his head back now to get rid of the nauseous feeling swirling around inside of him. But once he lifts his head up and opens one of his eyes again against the light he knows where the voice is coming from.

The mark sits elegantly on an old wooden chair, legs crossed, her blood red dress riding up close to her hips. Her elbows is resting against one of the arms, her chin resting against the heel of her hand, watching him with dark, empty eyes. "You really need to do better research," she insists carelessly. "There are many more people trained in the fine art of protecting their mind than you can imagine."

He starts to move forward, chains tugging against his wrists and keeping him locked in place in the cold metal chair. "We're only human," he replies. "We all make mistakes."

"Indeed," she agrees, unfolding her legs slowly as she stands up from the chair. "But some mistakes are far worse than others. Some of them come severe consequences."

"If you're trained in this then you know that you can't kill me," he insists. "If you kill me then I'll just wake up."

"Of course you will," she agrees amicably, walking towards him, her heels clicking against the floor. Leaning down to look at him her dark hair sways around her face. "But I'm not going to kill you. As a matter-of-fact, I'm not going to do anything. Not to _you_."

"You see," she continues as she stands up again, hair moving away from her face. "I thought to myself: what would upset him much more than if I hurt him. And then it hit me- you can handle a little bit of pain, can't you?" She smiles at him and it's like looking at broken glass. "I'm sure you've had your fair share in your line of work. No, hurting you wouldn't do any good. But hurting _her_…well, I'm sure that would be much worse for you."

"What?"

"You have to look past your nose, dear one," she scolds, stepping out of his line of view once more.

He closes his eyes again, clenching them shut to clear his vision and when he opens them is when he notices the large surgical table behind where the mark had been standing, a familiar small, pale body laid out on it. Ariadne lay there, eyes closed, arms stretched out on either side of her like she's being crucified. There are restraints on her arms, on her legs. Blood is caked on her forehead where it looks like her head was slammed into something, the dark red color marring her otherwise lovely skin.

"Don't," he says instantly, his eyes shifting to their capture. "Hurt me instead."

"Oh, but where would the fun be in that?" she questions him as she moves over to the table, stopping just above Ariadne's head and reaching down, slapping the young woman's cheek softly with her palm. "Time to wake up now," she coos down at her. "Wouldn't want you to miss all of the fun now, would we?"

The architect's eyes flutter open slowly, eyebrows drawing together in confusion and pain, a small and pathetic sound crawling up her throat. Turning her head slightly to the side she whimpers again even louder. Her head is throbbing like something is trying to come spilling out of it. She tries to lift her hand up to press it against her temple but she finds that she can't lift her hand up at all.

Her eyebrows furrow more deeply, turning her head even more to look at her arm, tugging uselessly against her restraint. Something akin to panic starts to spread across her face. Tugging harder on her wrist a whimper slips past her lips, the restraint digging into her skin. "Eames?" Her voice is panicked, close to hysterical. "_Eames_?"

"I'm here," he calls out to her softly, watching her face while her eyes scan the room and then fall on him, panic swirling within them, fear, distrust. "Listen to me, luv," he says seriously. "I want you to listen to me, okay? Remember that _none of this is real_. This is all just a dream. Okay? It's just a dream."

"Eames…" Ariadne tugs on her arm again, then the other, futile actions that she can't seem to stop herself from doing. "Eames, what's going on?"

"Just remember that it's a dream, Ariadne. It's a dream. None of this is happening."

"Oh, but it is," the mark insists. Reaching out the woman runs her fingers down the architect's face, nails brushing slightly against her skin. The gesture could be almost maternal, almost comforting if it weren't for the glint in her eyes. "Whatever happens in your dream your mind registers. And whatever happens in your mind is _quite_ real."

"Don't do this," Eames begs her, tugging on his restraints again.

"Did you know that it's quite easy to inflict pain upon others?" she asks, looking over at him, dark eyes glinting like the blade of a knife. "People think that it's difficult, that you can hurt people in your mind easily but in real life it's difficult. But it's not. It can actually be quite cathartic to inflict pain upon others."

"Inflicting pain upon others is one of the most exhilarating experiences another person can experience," she insists as he gaze turns back towards Ariadne. Her fingers grasp the young woman's chin painfully, nails digging into her skin, turning her face back so that it's facing the ceiling, facing her. "Now, I think it's only fair to let you know what's going to happen," she muses. "Its so much better that way."

"I'm going to hurt you," she tells her tonelessly. "And I'm not going to stop no matter what you do. So you can scream. You can cry. You can beg all you want. But you _will_ be hurt. And I _will_ enjoy it."

"_Eames_." Her voice comes out as little more than a whimper, panic surging throughout her body. Her nerve endings sizzle with it, adrenaline surging through her. Her instinct is to run, to get away but each time that she pulls against her restraints the effort proves to be futile and it just digs into her skin more. But she wants to get away, wants to get out. More than anything she wants to wake up. But unless she dies she's not going to and she knows that. So the only thing left to do is to pray for death.

"I'll tell you who hired us," Eames offers. It's a deal he wouldn't normally make, wouldn't _want_ to make. But even worse than selling out who hired them would be to stand there and watch this woman hurt the architect.

"Oh, I don't need that information," the mark replies carelessly. "I already know who hired you. And it was quite careless of _them_ not to tell you about me. I think, perhaps, they set you up." Her smile is predatory as she reaches out, grasping the edge of a small metal table. She wheels it across the floor, the wheels squeaking, the sound grating on the senses. "I think they wanted you to get hurt."

"Are you ready?" she asks the young woman tonelessly, pulling the sheet back off of the table. From where he is Eames can see something metallic glinting in the dim light though he can't tell what it is just yet. And that scares him more than anything. The unknown can be far more frightening than knowing what's to come.

"This _will_ hurt," the older woman tells the architect, reaching out with one hand and pressing it against the back of the girl's palm, pressing hard, pushing down, the pressure spreading the girl's fingers out against the table. "You might want to brace yourself, little one."

"Don't." But as she had been doing the whole time the mark ignores Eames' plea.

Instead she just looks at the girl's spread fingers, reaching out with her free hand, clasping the hammer there in her hand. "Eeny, meeny, miney, moe," she muses quietly, her eyes jumping across the girl's hand. And then she seems to decide what she's going to do, her smile widening and she lifts up the hammer. Eames yells, almost positive that he planned on yelling 'stop' but it came out more as a wordless sound, a protest in every sense of the word even as the hammer comes down onto the young woman's hand.

Something crunches in her hand, the bone of her index finger crushing beneath the pressure. Ariadne screams, her spine bowing in pain. Pain explodes behind her eyes turning her vision white and then black. She can taste blood in her mouth though there's no blood, her hand throbbing like someone put it in a vice grip. Tears start to run down her face, at first shocked ones and then ones of pain. "_Eames_," she whimpers through her tears. "Eames, wake me up. Make it stop."

"Oh, you're not waking up any time soon," the mark coos down at her. "Not for a while yet. Not until the dream is over."

"Stop it," the forger begs. "Hurt me if you have to. Just leave her alone."

"But if you have to watch her get hurt that'll hurt you so much more," she muses. "Now, do be quiet. I can't hear her scream properly if you're yammering on like that." Her hand comes back again, slamming the hammer back against the young woman's hand, another knuckle cracking beneath the blow. Ariadne howls again, a shrill but pathetic sound.

"Maggie!"

"You do _not_ have the right to call me that," the mark hisses at Eames, pointing the hammer at her. Something darker than before flashes through her eyes. "You want to reason with me? You want to _beg_ for her safety? It won't work. I don't give a shit about her."

"And now," Margaret continues. "Now you're going to learn- I have no sympathy for you. For _either_ of you."

"Now, I read about this in a book once and since then I've been wondering what it would be like to actually do it," Margaret muses. The hammer clatters loudly against the metal card and then she's grasping the edge of the car in her hand, pulling it away from the edge of the table and around to the other side.

Ariadne turns her head to the side so she's facing Eames. Her eyes are glassy, shiny with pain and fear, her face reddened by tears that he's not sure she's even conscious of at this time. And a part of him, a big part of him, hopes that she isn't, that she's not conscious of most things right now. But with the fear swirling around in her chocolate brown eyes he knows that she is. She's very, very aware of everything, her mind refusing to dismiss the pain and processing it instead.

"Just remember, luv- it's not real," he reminds her again, his voice as calm as he can make it though he feels like he could crawl right out of his skin, crawl out of his skin and march over there and throttle Margaret into oblivion, put her through as much pain as she's putting Ariadne through and refuse to kill her just like she's refusing to kill Ariadne, refuse to release her from the pain. It just seems fitting. But he knows he can't do that. Because in order to do that he needs to be able to move. And that's one thing he can't do.

"You can try to soothe her all you want but pain is very, very real," Margaret assures him in a cold, empty tone, coming up next to Ariadne, standing on the opposite side of the table from where Eames is sitting. "You know that, don't you? She wouldn't be in this much pain if it wasn't real."

"Now, I know you're already in pain," she says looking down at Ariadne, lifting the architect's shirt up on one side at to about breast level. "But the pain in your hand is going to feel none existent in a moment," she warns her. "So you might want to take a deep breath to prepare yourself."

"What are you going to do to her?"

"Now, I didn't tell you _before_," she reminds him. "So, why would I do it now?"

Eames growls under his breath as he looks at Margaret but he only watches her for a couple of seconds before he looks at Ariadne, meeting her eyes, his gaze intense enough that she can't look away. "Just watch me," he tells her. "Just watch me and focus on something else, anything else. Pretend that you're not here; pretend that none of this is happening."

Ariadne barely nods, clenching her eyes tight for a moment before opening them back up and locking her gaze with his again, trying her best not to look away, to focus on him rather than focusing on the pain. But it's almost impossible to do that because the pain in her hand is making her see dark spots in front of her eyes and if what the mark said is right then it's just about to get worse. But she tries, she really tries. She tries to keep her eyes locked with Eames' pale blue ones, tries to let herself get lost in them so maybe the pain won't become too overwhelming. It's a long shot and she knows that but she has to try, she absolutely has to. because if what's to come next is that much more painful then she doesn't think she'll be able to handle it. And she just really, really wishes that the dream would end. Now. Right now. She's desperate for it, more desperate than she's ever been for a dream to end.

"Pretending won't do any good," Margaret quips, that icy tone still lingering in her voice. "Pain happens no matter how hard you try to pretend that it isn't. It can overpower everything. But don't worry, dear one," she mock soothes, reaching up and running the tips of her fingers down Ariadne's cheek like a loving mother would do. "I promise you- things can and _will_ get worse."

Eames can hear the sound of metal clanging against metal as Margaret reaches out to grab something off of the metal cart, eyes shifting up to look at the forger's face, a smirk tilting up the corners of her mouth. "Ready?" she mockingly questions, almost laughing. She puts her one hand against the younger woman's side, feeling around for something that Eames couldn't guess if his life depended on it. And that's when he sees her pressing something against his side, a piece of metal; he sees the architect flinch against the feeling, desperation making her eyes shiny.

"You might want to take a breath," the mark warns, picking up the hammer once more. "Because this is gonna fucking hurt. And all you're gonna wanna do is scream." And it's before she Ariadne can respond or even really get a chance to take a deep breath that Margaret pulls back the hammer and slams it against the metal piece she pressed against Ariadne's side.

The architect screams, high and shrill, a sound that hurts Eames not just because of the pain that's swirling around inside of her right now that's sifting through to her voice but also because the sound is piercing, like its about to make his ears bleed. But what makes it worse is the way Margaret drops the hammed back on the cart and reaches out with both hands to grab onto the thing she slammed into Ariadne's side, eyebrows furrowing in concentration as she tugs, making the architect scream even louder than before. And that's when Margaret's blood covered hands come into view and he can see the metal spike in her hand, what looks like a railroad spike.

The architect's side burns like someone just took a blowtorch to it and the worst part is that when that spike had been rammed into her side it had broken two of her ribs. She could hear them crack, could feel the breaking and any time she breathes it presses them against her side like branches trying to break through. Blood is dripping down her side and while it took away the feeling of pain in her hand this is so much worse. So she clenches her eyes shut as hot tears of pain spill down her cheeks, leaving salty trails down her face.

"Ooh, that was more fun than I thought it would be," Margaret muses in this soft voice full of wonder, like a child that just had ice cream for the first time and can't believe how wonderful it tastes. She rubs her bloody fingers together, watching the way it smears, fascinated by it, by the color, the texture. She lifts up her hand and runs the bloody tips down her cheek, stripping her skin with the woman's blood, closing her eyes as if in ecstasy.

"You fucking psychotic bitch!" Eames struggles against his restraints to try to get to her, the metal digging into his skin. It cuts the skin of his wrists open, makes blood start to pool beneath the metal. "You could have punctured her bloody lung!"

Margaret's eyes shoot open, lowering her head down to look at him, something dark flashing in her eyes. "Flattery will get you _nowhere_. And if I had punctured her lung then she'd just slowly choke on her own blood. And frankly, I'd find it amusing to watch her coughing up blood." A determined look on her face she reaches out and jams her finger into the puncture wound making the younger girl howl, making her spine bow.

Eames growls, pulling against the restraints again, metal digging deeper into his skin. And that's when he hears it, the soft and distinct sound of music filtering into his head. His eyes snap up to the ceiling as if looking for the origin but really he's just listening. And then his eyes shift back to the young injured woman's face. "Do you hear that? It's almost over, Ariadne. It'll be over soon. Just keep breathing."

Ariadne doesn't reply though. She just whimpers, the pain burning into her, making her feel like she's going to be consumed by it. She knows that she shouldn't let it take total control but she can't help it. She's never felt pain like this before, not once in her life.

"We're not done yet," Margaret insists, a crazed look in her eyes. She reaches out and grabs onto Ariadne's hand and slams the hammer down onto the architect's hand, cracking more bones, thrilled at the sound of her screaming. And then, all at once, Eames feels like he's falling and the world goes black. 

* * *

><p>Eames jolts awake in his train seat with a gasp, eyes taking a second to adjust to being in the real world again before they jump over to the architect. Standing up he makes his way over to her seat against the jolting movement of the train, reaching her just as her eyes open and throwing a hand over her mouth to smother her cries. From his own seat Yusuf's eyes widen, silently asking the forger what happened but the forger doesn't answer, he just pulls Ariadne to him while she cries behind his hand and leads her out of the train car before the mark can wake up. <p>

* * *

><p>The car ride back from the station Ariadne doesn't speak. She just sits there looking out the window, silent tears running down her face while Eames glances at her from time to time, trying to make sure that she's okay. Physically she has no wounds but he knows that he can't speak for emotionally. Because going through something like that, even in your head, leaves a mark on you, affects you for a lot longer than you can even begin to imagine.<p>

He drives her back to her apartment, follows her inside to make sure that she's alright. She just moves into the bathroom as soon as she gets inside, locking herself in. at first he tries to talk to her, tries to find out how she is but she doesn't reply. And it isn't until he hears the shower start that he decides to go and sit down on the couch and wait for her.

But nearly an hour later she still hasn't come out and so he goes back over to the door, knocking on it, his hand curled into a fist, knuckles rapping against the door. He waits for an answer but none comes so he checks the knob and finds it unlocked. And so he steps inside, closing it behind him, calling out to her and still not getting a response.

Walking over to the shower he pulls the curtain back and looks down at her, watching her sitting on the floor of the tub, her legs bent up towards her chest, arms wrapped her legs, face pressed against her knees, the water having gone cold by now.

He undoes the button of his shirt quickly and shrugs it off, letting it fall to the bathroom floor, slips his shoes off and climbs inside of the shower still with half of his clothes on, crouching down in front of her to run his hand over her hair, watching her cry, her shoulders shaking, goose bumps all over her flesh.

"I'm sorry, darling," he whispers to her. "I wish that hadn't happened to you. I wish I could have stopped it. I shouldn't have had us do this without the others, without Cobb and Arthur. We needed them. And I should have realized that sooner."

She lifts her head up to look at him, her brown eyes bloodshot, her face red. "It still hurts," she croaks out. "I can still feel my side burning."

"I'm sorry, darling."

She doesn't say another word.

He just sits there in the shower with her. 

* * *

><p>Two weeks later and she still looks haunted. She shies away from anyone who touches her, gets this far off pained look when she gets to think for too long. Arthur is pissed at him, looks like he wants to rip him apart, wants to rip his throat out. Because after he had told Yusuf about what happened he had told the others and ever since then neither the point man nor the extractor had been able to look at him the same.<p>

The first time that they all met up together again, the week after the incident, Cobb had taken him aside and tore into him, reminding him that he had been careless, that they were lucky that the mark didn't turn around and do anything to them in the real world as well. He knew that Cobb was right but hadn't said anything back, his own guilt hurting him more than anything they said could. He had simply stood there and took the verbal lashing.

Two weeks later and he's in his hotel room in Paris, the lights of the city the only thing illuminating the room, listening to the steady drum of the air conditioner filling the room. Two weeks later and Ariadne hasn't spoken to him.

There's a knock on his door and he climbs out of bed, drudging over and swinging it open.

He doesn't question why she's there when he lets her in.

He doesn't try to stop her when she curls up against him in bed and cries.

And when she tells him it still feels like she's dying he doesn't tell her that he feels that way, too. 

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> The book Margaret says she read the railroad spike bit in is called _Heartsick_ by Chelsea Cain. Really good if you like the idea of a scary, beautiful female serial killer.


End file.
